


Hold His Love in His Hands

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Sexual Content, Size Kink, Spitroasting, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 18:39:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2517815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Listen,” Porthos says, quietly, eyes flickering back to Aramis who fumbles with unrolling his boots down off his calves.  “You should just take off.  When he’s like this, he gets… clingy.” For his part, though, d'Artagnan decides to stay - and learns just what Porthos means by 'clingy'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold His Love in His Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, where to start about this. There's a few requests combined into one with this fic, mostly with a request for a threesome that WASN'T the typical OT3, and also spitroasting and size kink. Also with d'Artagnan having an inappropriate crush on Aramis. So here it is, whee. 
> 
> I should also note that there IS a brief implication of Anne/Aramis, as well as less subtle Constance/d'Artagnan, but since neither woman makes an appearance in the fic, I didn't mark them as pairings. 
> 
> Also, funny ~~horrifying~~ story about this fic, ha ha ha. When trying to send my CV to my professor to write letters of rec for my applications to graduate school, I accidentally sent her the WIP file of this fic. Back when all it was was sex, with no lead up or explanation. And the real kicker? That professor teaches a class on Dumas, so... that was wonderful. I caught it in time and sent the real file but... I will never fully know for sure whether or not my Dumas professor read my Musketeers shameless porn. SPITROASTING PORN ON TOP OF THAT. FUCK MY LIFE. 
> 
> Knowing that, I hope you enjoy this fic. :'|
> 
>  **ETA:** Ugh fuck I forgot about this part. I should mention that during this fic **the three of them are drunk, Aramis most of all, and therefore they can't actually give proper consent from modern day standards.** I can Word of God it to say that, even if sober, all three would be consenting, but within the context of this fic, it is technically dubious consent at best. If that disturbs anyone, please turn back now.

It’s late and they’re drinking – which isn’t so uncommon for most evenings, but today in particular there’s been a heavy emphasis on the drink – and not even from Athos. All things considered, d’Artagnan can’t really complain – given the state of things with Constance (of wanting, and never having again, it seems – of victory followed so closely by defeat), he can’t really say no to a drink right now. They drink for hours, their conversations thrummed by the low light of the tavern, their blood singing with the wine. 

It’s the kind of drinking that goes straight to the head, and d’Artagnan feels heavy with it. Despite their victories, it’s been a quiet last few days, more subdued than anything else. With Athos, it’s understandable, given everything that’s transpired with his erstwhile wife. But Aramis, too, has been quiet the entire week – and when d’Artagnan asked Athos about it, Athos had merely advised him to not pursue it, to let it go – that it would pass. But it’s rare enough for Aramis to take to drink as deeply as he is tonight, much less to do so when looking moody rather than cheerful, hardly goading Porthos at all or teasing Athos. 

He knows that Porthos is just as blind to the problem occupying Aramis’ mind as d’Artagnan is, because he’s frowning thoughtfully now at Aramis as he finishes off the last bottle of wine. He exchanges a brief look with d’Artagnan, tilting his head, brow furrowing. 

Aramis doesn’t normally drink to the excess that the others do, and certainly not like this. When Porthos asks him about it, Aramis merely shrugs and says _the mood struck me._ Porthos doesn’t question it, but it’s clear that there’s sympathy there when he reaches out and steadies Aramis by his shoulder when he sways a little. 

Porthos braces his hand on Aramis’ shoulder, steadily, as Aramis sways a little – and d’Artagnan sees Aramis smile slightly, and a warm flush runs down into his belly at the sight so that he has to duck his head against his own cup. When he glances up again, Porthos and Aramis are still looking at each other – Aramis’ expression gentle, but almost hesitant, and Porthos only open and honest, as he always is, with or without the drink. His hand still touches Aramis’ shoulder, his hand large, making the color rise up on d’Artagnan’s cheeks for the way the hand lingers for a touch longer than strictly necessary. 

As the night progresses, d’Artagnan can’t help but keep a sharp eye on Aramis – searching for any cracks, for any hints. There’s a softness to his eyes but a sharpness to his jaw as he tilts his head back, drinks straight from the bottle. His adam’s apple bobs with swallowing and d’Artagnan can’t help but stare even though he knows he shouldn’t, even though he’s told himself time and again to not stare, especially so openly. When he drags his eyes away, he thinks he sees Porthos watching him out of the corner of his eye, but he does all he can to remain nonchalant, to take the bottle casually from Aramis’ hand and pour himself more of the drink that’d just pressed to Aramis’ lips. He shouldn’t think these things. He knows. 

Aramis takes a slug of the drink, licks his lips, sighs out and closes his eyes briefly before opening them again, and perhaps he’s not as drunk as he wants to be, because even though he sways, his eyes still stay focused, his hands steady as he fiddles with the hat in his lap. One hand lifts, cups his own jaw, thumbs against his bottom lip as he loses himself in thought, and d’Artagnan is lost with just staring. 

He wonders if he should have taken his leave, if only to save himself from these thoughts – a strange mix of Aramis and of missing Constance, of missing her smile and her hair and the way she felt beneath him. Aramis’ thumb drags along his bottom lip absently, fingers curled around the neck of the wine bottle in a way that shouldn’t be obscene, but is. 

The point becomes moot, however, as a quarter of an hour later finds Porthos gently prying another bottle from Aramis and fetching his hat for him. He places it on his head and helps Aramis to his feet, and d’Artagnan can’t help but stare at the way Porthos’ hands close so easily around him, the way they rest there as he helps him to his feet – large, but gentle.

“You’ve had enough,” Porthos murmurs, quietly, and if it were anyone else he would seem nonchalant and unconcerned, but d’Artagnan knows him too well, can see how concerned he is. And he can’t help but agree – thinking that this ‘mood’ doesn’t suit Aramis, that Aramis is better, so much better, when he’s smiling, when he’s laughing, when he’s joking and at ease. That’s what d’Artagnan likes most of all about Aramis – that’s what comes to mind when he thinks of Aramis (when he allows himself to think of Aramis). 

Aramis doesn’t protest, which d’Artagnan is grateful for, concerned that he would insist, that he would just keep drinking. It’s behavior they’re used to from Athos, but from Aramis, it’s just on the knife’s edge of alarming.

They stagger out of the tavern and amble down the street. Aramis sways and glides, somehow graceful even when drunk. 

“Do you want me to get Athos?” Porthos asks, his voice low and rumbling. 

Aramis shakes his head, then sways on the spot when the wine goes to his head with the movement. He looks at d’Artagnan for a long moment but then turns back towards Porthos, looking at him pleadingly. “No, no… Athos would know too much. He can’t…” 

Porthos frowns and d’Artagnan stays quiet, unsure what to make of that speech, but not willing to interrupt. The words, of course, make no sense – but it isn’t as if Porthos and d’Artagnan haven’t noticed the strange looks both Athos and Aramis have exchanged over the last days. For his part, d’Artagnan can’t place just why and when these looks appear throughout the day, only that it’s usually Athos’ whose gaze flickers towards Aramis, and Aramis who wisely looks away. 

Aramis stares up at Porthos. “You and d’Artagnan, though… you don’t know. So it’s alright.”

He can see the question in Porthos’ eyes, see the moment he wavers between wanting to know and dismissing it as drunken rambles, see the exact moment he decides not to ask in respect to that privacy. And he sighs, looking at d’Artagnan with a small nod. With that, d’Artagnan moves to Aramis, hopefully not as eagerly as he feels, and scoops up his arm, draping it over his shoulder so that both he and Porthos are holding him up.

Together, the three of them walk towards Aramis’ quarters. And d’Artagnan watches the two of them out of the corner of his eye, flickering between one and the other, periodically, cheeks flushing with what he hopes is just the wine, to see the way Aramis leans against Porthos’ shoulder, the way Porthos seems to tower over him, bulk and muscle. They’re roughly the same size, but Porthos just fills up so much more space, his arm large and secure, curled around Aramis’ frame. 

It takes a little navigating to get Aramis into his home, a jab of Porthos’ boot to get the door to shut, a bit of a struggle for the three of them to fit up the stairs at once and keeping Aramis from tripping over his own boots. But they do get there with little incident. 

Porthos dumps Aramis onto his bed, kindly despite the force of it, and Aramis sprawls out, hands lifting as if to grasp at Porthos. Porthos smiles at him, catches his wrists, whispers for him to get his boots off. 

He steps back, though, large hand falling on d’Artagnan’s arm and pulling him back and aside. “Listen,” he says, quietly, eyes flickering back to Aramis who fumbles with unrolling his boots down off his calves. “You should just take off. When he’s like this, he gets… clingy.”

“He’s been like this before?” d’Artagnan asks, flushing at the thought. 

“A few times,” Porthos admits, “It’s been a while now. But – yeah, he’s home now and that’s what matters. I’ll keep an eye on him, but you can head home.” 

“What’s home?” d’Artagnan mutters, miserably, thinking of the little room in Constance’s house that no longer belongs to him – thinks of those smiles and that love that no longer can belong to him, either, thanks to a manipulative husband. His heart squeezes tight in his chest and the thought of returning to his newly rented room, dank and lonely, is too much to bear. “I’ll stay here, if it’s all the same.” 

Porthos gives him a long look, and then smiles, sympathetic – and d’Artagnan knows he’s bad at hiding his feelings, always has been – and clasps a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once. 

“He’s drunk,” Porthos says as he steps back towards Aramis, who’s managed to get one boot off. Porthos kneels down and catches his ankle and slides off the other boot for him as Aramis makes a quiet noise of contemplation. “So any time you want to leave, just go. I can handle him on my own.”

And he’s concerned about all these warnings and dismissals, but d’Artagnan does his best to hide that as well. He steps closer to Aramis, who looks up at him and seems to blink a few times before recognizing him, and then smiles a little – brief and fleeting. 

And d’Artagnan watches as Porthos reaches out and starts undoing Aramis’ belt, the blue sash, props open the jacket for him and tugs it off his shoulders. Aramis sits up enough to let him remove his clothes, and that’s when d’Artagnan realizes that the look Aramis is giving Porthos is one of a lover, soft around the edges, lips curved upwards – a look he’s seen on Constance’s face before, when she looked at him. When his coat is freed and it’s just his billowing tunic, slipping down off one shoulder, he’s moving closer and draping his arms over Porthos, smiling at him. 

“Porthos,” he says, his voice honeyed and desperate. 

“Hey you,” Porthos says, voice quiet, a low rumble – and warm. Aramis smiles and d’Artagnan looks away, suddenly feeling like he’s intruding on something, and for the first time realizing and understanding Porthos’ warnings for what they are. 

He only makes a faint sound of surprise when Aramis leans in and kisses Porthos soundly. Even if he shouldn’t be so surprised, he still starts a bit, and then kind of watches despite himself – watches the way Porthos smiles a little, sighs out, and presses closer. The way he lifts his hand and touches Aramis’ cheek. The way Aramis leans into the touch, his voice hitching into the kiss, and whining when he tries to deepen it only for Porthos to draw back. 

Porthos smiles at Aramis, warm and gentle, like Aramis is the only person in the entire world – and then turns his head to look at d’Artagnan, his expression shifting into something much more guarded, waiting. Waiting for d’Artagnan’s reaction, he realizes distantly – and his entire body feels tensed, his heart pounding, hands shaking. Porthos is still watching him, not saying anything, even as Aramis whines at the lack of attention and leans in to start kissing Porthos’ neck. Porthos tips his head back for him, and it’s at once an inviting gesture for Aramis as well as a defensive move towards d’Artagnan. 

Instead of being outraged or uncomfortable, d’Artagnan merely shifts, licks his lips, and blushes. He looks down a little. This, it seems, is damning enough because instantly Porthos’ expression becomes more relaxed and he turns his head, nuzzling against Aramis’ temple, hand lifting to brush through Aramis’ hand.

“You want me to take care of you?” he asks quietly into Aramis’ hair. 

Aramis shivers and d’Artagnan can see the movement even from across the room 

“Please,” Aramis says quietly. “Make me forget everything – make me forget my own name.” 

“You need that?” he asks, quieter still. “You going to tell me about it.”

“I can’t,” Aramis whispers, nuzzles against Porthos’ jaw. “Porthos, please – please just… I need something to focus on. I need something to hold onto.” 

It’s the most articulate he’s been all evening, and his hands aren’t shaking when they grasp at Porthos’ shoulders. Porthos curls his arms around Aramis, hands splayed across his back, and in that moment he seems almost small, nestled in Porthos’ hold, and d’Artagnan thinks one betraying thought – if Aramis would look small in comparison to the rest of Porthos. He blushes up to his ears as the thought settles. 

Porthos frowns, slides his hands over Aramis’ hair. “You sure you don’t want me to go get Athos?” He’s looking at d’Artagnan as he speaks. “Don’t want you to do something you’ll regret.”

Aramis squirms a little and answers before d’Artagnan can think to realize the last part might have been directed at him. “Please, Porthos.” He breathes out shakily, lifts his head and finds d’Artagnan’s eyes – and holds them, soft and pleading. Something twists in d’Artagnan’s gut with that look. “Please… Just make me forget. It’s fine like this, just – just please.” 

Porthos nods, and pushes Aramis back. Aramis whines and arches, hands scrambling to hold onto Porthos’ shoulders as Porthos makes quick work of stripping Aramis down. Aramis makes some abortive movements to strip Porthos of his clothes, too, but is soon distracted with unbuttoning Porthos’ jacket in favor of arching and shedding his own clothes, until he is sprawled naked beneath Porthos. 

Like this, d’Artagnan doesn’t know what to do – he stands, rooted to the spot, but drinks Aramis in during the strange privacy of this intimate moment, standing to the side of the two of them as Porthos runs his hands over him. Aramis’ hands, his chest, his cock – d’Artagnan drinks it all in, his entire body tight and tensed, humming with arousal and uncertainty. For his part, he doesn’t turn tail and flee, but he can feel the pulse of his own cock pressing awkwardly against his breeches. He doesn’t dare move, afraid of drawing attention to himself and making Porthos and Aramis remember to dismiss him. He stands, a voyeur. 

He stands, watching, as Porthos’ hands slide down Aramis’ chest – watches the way Aramis arches, whines low in his throat. “Please, Porthos—”

“I’m getting there, you fool,” Porthos interrupts, one hand cupping his hip. “Be patient.” 

“I can’t,” Aramis murmurs, arches a bit, and then sighs out happily when Porthos wraps a hand around his cock and strokes. His hand is large, warm, thumb pressing to the cockhead, and d’Artagnan can’t look away. 

But he’s soon impatient, hands scrambling over Porthos, trying to get more touch, trying to demand more, more firmly, more present, and d’Artagnan can see the worry and frustration etching into Porthos’ brow. He pulls back enough to pull open a little drawer on the table beside Aramis’ bed with practiced ease, as if he knew exactly what he was looking for, and d’Artagnan’s eyes bug out a bit as he uncorks a little bottle of oil and pours it into his palm, slicking his fingers up. Aramis whines, louder than before, and squirms. 

“Christ,” Porthos gasps out when Aramis practically squirms into his lap and rocks against him. “Aramis – for God’s sake, you need to slow down. I’m going to take care of you, but you gotta be patient.”

“Make me forget – Porthos, please. I still know my name. I still remember too much. Just make me think of nothing at all – just make it so all I can focus on is your hand.” His fingers curl around Porthos’ wrist, pries the bottle from his hand and pours on more oil until it drips down off his fingertips. “Your mouth. Your cock. You. Porthos—”

“I promised I’d take care of you,” Porthos says quietly, “But I can’t fucking do that if you keep interrupting me while I try to get you ready. I’m not just gonna fuck into you like an animal. You know that.” 

“You’re too careful,” Aramis gasps out, squirming more until Porthos pins him back down. “Always so gentle and caring, my dear Porthos.” 

“Shut up,” Porthos says, but there’s a touch of laughter to his voice, and his expression does relax a bit as he slides one hand over his cock, the other pressing down between his legs – and d’Artagnan shifts a little bit just so he can see, just so he can watch the way Porthos’ broad, strong fingers breach past Aramis. Aramis gasps out, arches, and bites at his lip, squirming down against his hand. 

The patience doesn’t last long, as usual, the drink fueling Aramis’ desire as well as his impatience, and his hands are soon enough grasping at Porthos, trying to get him to fuck into him harder, trying to get him to add another finger. Porthos’ hands are slippery and preoccupied, and Aramis’ fingers are everywhere, grasping and tracing and trying to press into himself along with Porthos’ thick fingers. 

Porthos growls a little – looks up, and seems to remember that d’Artagnan is there. He blinks once, takes in d’Artagnan’s expression, and nods his head just once.

“Get over here,” he says. “Help me out. This idiot’s about to squirm his way off the bed.” 

There’s just one, brief moment when d’Artagnan weighs his options, considers just leaving – as Porthos said, he could leave whenever he wants – but then it seems that Porthos is asking him, is giving him permission to approach. 

And so d’Artagnan nods and drops to his knees by Aramis. Aramis doesn’t appear to notice him at first, his upper body curled off the bed all the better to reach Porthos – and he’s looking at Porthos, only Porthos, and it doesn’t take long for Aramis to become lost in him, just looking at him with a blazing intensity that leaves d’Artagnan a little breathless, a little voyeuristic, to see them. In a sharp movement, d’Artagnan reaches forward and snatches up Aramis’ wrists, pulling his hands out of Porthos’ way. Aramis squirms a little initially, sucking in a sharp breath, and d’Artagnan squeezes his wrists, kneeling before him, watching Porthos fuck two fingers into Aramis with considerable familiarity. 

“You really have done this before,” d’Artagnan says, quietly, somewhat embarrassed by the asinine comment – because _of course_ he has. But d’Artagnan is still trying to wrap his head around that – still trying to process that, perhaps, his misguided thoughts about Aramis weren’t so far off the mark as he’d feared. He ducks his head to keep himself from thinking of Constance down beneath his hands in turn. 

It’s testament to how well Porthos knows Aramis, knows just how to twist his fingers, because it only takes two thrusts of his fingers, in deep, fast thrusts, before Aramis’ keening sounds turn into something altogether different – he stops squirming under d’Artagnan’s hold and instead goes completely slack, sagging towards the bed, and d’Artagnan nearly gets himself all tangled up in his attempts to keep Aramis steady. Aramis shifts, presses his face against d’Artagnan’s thigh, and sighs out gently – content, nuzzling against his inner thigh and d’Artagnan swallows thickly. Aramis moans a little, moves sinuously, manages to grind himself down onto Porthos’ hand, squirming a little and mouthing out against d’Artagnan’s breeches, turning his head and blinking slowly up at him. 

“… Ah, d’Artagnan,” Aramis says, as if only just now realizing he is there, blinking up at him a few times. His eyes are their usual dazzling, startling color, but glassy with drink and lust, and d’Artagnan feels oddly protective of him in that moment, and he gentles his hold on Aramis’ wrists. Aramis smiles a little, a slow smile that unfurls across his face. “Good,” he says, quietly, eyelashes fluttering, and he turns his head a little to glance down at Porthos again, spreading his legs. “Mmm,” he hums out, resting his cheek to d’Artagnan’s thigh. “Mm. More. More, please, just – just _more_.” 

“That’s what you always say,” Porthos says, strangely cheerful now given the strange situation they’ve found themselves in. Perhaps he’s just pleased to not be interrupted now, with d’Artagnan holding down Aramis’ hands. And d’Artagnan can feel his heart pounding up against his ribs, which suddenly feel like they’re entirely ill-equipped to contain his heart and passion. 

He looks down a little to see Porthos add a third finger, stretching him, and Aramis keens loudly, bucks his hips up violently, and d’Artagnan nearly loses his hold completely. 

“Keep him pinned,” Porthos says, calmly, eyes on Aramis. Aramis is looking at him, lips parted, whispering out Porthos’ name, and gets a small smile in response. “Be good. Don’t scar the poor lad, yeah?” 

Aramis whimpers, squirms a little down onto his hand, his own twitching a little in d’Artagnan’s grip – but his eyes are only on the man above him. “Porthos…”

“I know, I know. You’re doing so well. Look at how pretty you are,” Porthos says, his voice soft and graveled, but smoothed like honey. He presses his hand in deeper, stroking more firmly, and Aramis arches with a delighted gasp. 

Aramis arches a bit, tilts his head, looks up at d’Artagnan. “Do you think I’m pretty, too?”

“… Yeah,” d’Artagnan says, blushing, biting his lip. 

Aramis beams up at him, turns his head and nuzzles against d’Artagnan’s thigh, mouthing out over the worn clothes, breathing out, and his mouth is hot and wet and d’Artagnan just wishes he’d thought to undress, too. But Porthos is still clothed, as well, and he doesn’t know just what his role will be in helping Aramis ‘forget’, in helping Aramis settle down – and it’s enough, in a way, just to be near, to be able to drink him in – to see the line of his jaw up close like this, the way his mouth parts, panting, the way his flush paints down over his chest and stomach, heaving with his moans, the way his cock strains, hard and flushed, against his stomach. The way his legs quiver and spread as Porthos fucks into him. It’s almost too much and d’Artagnan can’t breathe for it all. Aramis’ toes curl where they rest on the bed just beyond Porthos. 

“Ready?” Porthos asks after a few more moments of that, and d’Artagnan doesn’t look up from watching Aramis to figure out whether Porthos is speaking to him or to the man below them. He merely squares his shoulders a little and holds Aramis down. 

Aramis, for his part, makes a few eager noises and it sends a stuttering lurch of arousal through d’Artagnan as he holds him down, and he deliberately looks only at his hands curled tight around Aramis’ wrists, concentrates on keeping him still as Porthos slowly withdraws his hand. 

He looks up as Porthos shifts back, watches out of the dip of his eyelashes as Porthos undoes the belt to his breeches, pushes them down over his hips. He can’t help but stare at the curve of Porthos’ cock, larger than d’Artagnan would expect (not that he’s thought about it – not too much, at least – alright, he’d expected him to be large). Porthos’ hands, large and squared and gentle, look small as he curls his fingers around himself, strokes absently, slicks himself up as he watches Aramis – who is watching Porthos like his life depends on it. He makes a soft, distressed sound when he tries to reach out for Porthos, when he finds Porthos so far away, but d’Artagnan holds him down, presses his palms down against his wrists. 

“Shh,” Porthos whispers. “You’re doing great. You’re alright, d’Artagnan’s got you.”

Aramis swivels his head, finds d’Artagnan, and smiles a little, almost boyish as it lights up his eyes. He’s looking back at Porthos soon enough, though, beaming – although, for perhaps two moments, there is a sadness to his eyes as he says, quietly, with just a touch of irony to his words that d’Artagnan can’t decipher, “So he does.” 

Porthos stretches a little, rocks his hips forward into his hand, and d’Artagnan can’t help but stare, at the thickness and girth of his cock, the color of it as it weighs down heavy in Porthos’ hand. Watches it as Porthos shifts closer, slides his hands over Aramis’ thighs, spreads them – and Aramis is not small in stature, not even that much shorter than Porthos but still Porthos seems to engulf all attention as he moves to him, hands cupping his hips and squeezing, guiding Aramis up, spreading his legs. Aramis whines out, and Porthos shifts forward, lets his cock drag down against Aramis’, just to elicit that tiny cry of pleasure from him. 

Watching Aramis’ face for a moment, closely, d’Artagnan shifts between watching Aramis be penetrated and Porthos penetrate him, watches the cock press up against Aramis and slide in, slowly, carefully, so painfully mindful of Aramis, even as Aramis squirms and whines and begs for more. He can hardly move between d’Artagnan pinning him down and Porthos’ heavy and firm grip on his hips and thighs keeping him pressed down to the bed. Biting his lip, d’Artagnan holds Aramis down, holds him so that he’ll stay in place – holds him, just as Aramis wants – and envisions how it must feel, to have Porthos’ cock pushing gently inside, to feel himself get his fill of him. He watches Aramis’ face twist in pleasure, watches his mouth open in puffs of short breath. 

He imagines what it would feel like if both he and Porthos were inside of Aramis. He swallows thickly, feels himself shift, uncomfortable yet again in his own breeches. 

When Porthos starts fucking Aramis properly, d’Artagnan can feel it in his own body, in the way it jars him, in the way Aramis clenches his fingers inside of d’Artagnan’s hold, the quiet hum of Aramis’ _yes_ , punctuated with each roll of Porthos’ hips. _Yes. Yes. Yes…_

Aramis tugs one hand free and d’Artagnan lets him go, watches Aramis drop his hand down to trace over Porthos’ chest, up over his shoulder, cups his cheek. Porthos pauses in his rhythm of thrusting into Aramis to smile at him, warm and gentle and painfully intimate in a way that leaves the sex almost nondescript in contrast. He can’t help but watch, mesmerized, by the way Aramis’ thumb strokes over Porthos’ cheek, the way his fingers lift and trace over the scar on his eye, the way he whispers out his name as if it is both salvation and damnation, wonderment and awe.

His hand moves over Porthos, tugs at his jacket, finishes unbuttoning it and pushing it off one shoulder at a time, more deft with one hand that d’Artagnan had been the first time he’d tried to undress Constance – and there’s a tenderness at the way Aramis’ hand traces over Porthos’ neck, touches at the rawhide necklace hanging in the dip of his clavicle. Porthos draws back long enough to tug off his tunic, bare-chested now, and Aramis sighs out, traces his hand over him as Porthos resumes his own hold, resumes thrusting into him. 

It’s around the time that Aramis starts moaning – loud and shameless – that d’Artagnan stops pretending that he’s not staring – and he drinks in his fill, takes in Porthos’ dark hands on Aramis’ hips, on the flush of his stomach, on his scars, on the underside of one thigh where he has it bent up and outward, giving him full access to fuck into Aramis. Aramis, like the rest of them, is marked with scars but it doesn’t make him look any less flawless, any less soft and glowing, flushed with his arousal and staring at Porthos like Porthos is the entire world, making obscene noises with every inward thrust. He’s rolling his head back and forth against d’Artagnan’s thigh, neck taut and jaw tight, moaning loudly, muffled only occasionally by the fabric of d’Artagnan’s breeches which feel suddenly far too thick for this. 

Aramis’ mouth is open, he licks his lips, breathes out in pants and moans, and d’Artagnan is only human, only a man, and his fingers slide a little against Aramis’ wrists, slide up to stroke over his palms and even that’s enough to get Aramis to moan, turning his head and pressing his mouth up against his leg, and d’Artagnan feels the groan vibrate through him. He can feel the wet, smiling press of Aramis’ mouth, a biting, sucking kiss to the inside of his thigh – and d’Artagnan envisions how easy it would be for Porthos to just flip Aramis over, drag him ass-first into the air, leave Aramis’ mouth pressed into d’Artagnan’s lap, leave Aramis to lick and suck and drag his lips over d’Artagnan’s breeches, leave d’Artagnan to draw out his cock for Aramis to explore. It’d be smaller in comparison to Porthos, but no less good for Aramis to get his smiling mouth around.

A wounded noise punches its way out of d’Artagnan’s throat before he can stop it and Porthos looks up at him, looking away from Aramis for the first time in what feels like years – and his look is smoldering, inquisitive, as he takes in d’Artagnan’s face – and d’Artagnan knows he can’t hide anything that Porthos can’t already guess. His eyes drag to where Aramis is mouthing at his thigh, scraping his teeth over his breeches, whining and moaning into the fabric. And d’Artagnan swallows thickly. 

Porthos catches Aramis’ hand, kisses his palm, then each fingertip, never taking his eyes off of Aramis. “We’ve got you. You’re alright.” 

And then Porthos drops their hands down together, fingers curled together, sliding Aramis’ cock between the two palms and Aramis moans against d’Artagnan’s thigh. With one hand free now, though, d’Artagnan can’t help but smooth the hair back away from Aramis’ face, looks at the way Aramis watches Porthos. Aramis shifts a bit to the touch, though, and looks up at d’Artagnan, a half-smile playing across his lips.

He swallows thickly under that gaze and, mimicking Porthos’ words, murmurs, “We’ve got you. You’re alright.” 

“He’s so big, d’Artagnan,” Aramis whispers, and for one brief, horrified moment, d’Artagnan’s afraid he’d somehow voiced his thoughts on Porthos’ particular assets, but it seems that Aramis is just whispering out words for the sake of speaking, arching under Porthos’ touch as Porthos drags his hands down his chest, letting his nails drag, cups his hips. Aramis moans quietly. “He fills me up so well, d’Artagnan. You have no idea, it’s – it’s so good.” 

Swallowing thickly, d’Artagnan manages a small nod. “Yeah?” 

“Yes,” Aramis moans, turns his head, and smiles up at Porthos. “My beautiful brute knows how to ravish me just right.”

Porthos snorts out a laugh and rolls his eyes, flashes an almost embarrassed smile d’Artagnan’s way, and then ducks his head to his task, thrusting deep into Aramis, harder and faster now, enough that d’Artagnan can feel the pace of it rocking through Aramis’ body, pressed up to his thigh. 

Aramis gasps out happily, wet and hot, mouthing against d’Artagnan’s thigh. Watching him, d’Artagnan can’t stop the soft, undignified sound he makes as he continues to do that, and when he looks up, he finds Porthos watching him. He can only hope he doesn’t look as desperate as he feels. 

“You want to suck his cock, Aramis?” Porthos asks quietly, slides his hands over his stomach and his cock so that Aramis whines out softly, nuzzling into d’Artagnan’s thigh. “Look at you. You want it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Aramis sobs out. 

Porthos lifts his gaze again, catches d’Artagnan’s eye. He lifts an eyebrow – a silent invitation. 

Hands shaking, d’Artagnan lets go of Aramis long enough to fumble with his clothes, undressing enough so that his cock is freed from his breeches. The angle’s all wrong, but that doesn’t keep Aramis from arching, tilting his head back as far as he can go, and licking at his cock lightly – just a touch, but enough for d’Artagnan to shudder.

“Hey, hold on,” Porthos says, laughing, a hand reaching up to curl into Aramis’ hair and tug his head forward again. “Let me turn you over before you start choking on it.” 

“I want it,” Aramis sighs, and squirms. He whines loudly when Porthos draws out of him, but he’s soon moaning happily when Porthos just abruptly flips him over so that he’s face-down in d’Artagnan’s lap, ass in the air. Porthos runs his hands over Aramis’ hips and down, spreading him as he lifts up onto his knees and rocks into Aramis abruptly, firmly. Aramis gasps out, lifts his head, and curls his mouth just as abruptly around d’Artagnan’s cock, suckling before d’Artagnan can even think to prepare himself. 

“Touch his hair,” Porthos says, looking at d’Artagnan. “He likes it when you touch his hair.” 

Hands shaking, d’Artagnan obeys, curling his hands tight into Aramis’ hair as Aramis squirms happily, rocking his hips back to meet Porthos’ cock and mumbling happily around the cock in his mouth. Aramis nearly sobs with relief once he gets his mouth around him. 

Aramis hums out and his mouth is wet and hot, sloppy, in the way it curls around d’Artagnan’s cock, suckling on the head, his mouth slippery and warm as he kisses down the length of him and then swallows around him. His lips pillow against his cock, and d’Artagnan bites his lip to hold back his own whines, his hips shuddering a little with the effort to not just rock hard into his mouth in time to the thrusts of Porthos’ cock behind Aramis. 

Aramis’ hands, free now, run down over d’Artagnan’s thighs, touching over his hips, fingers digging in as his mouth, wet and willing, slides down over him, taking him in deep, and d’Artagnan watches the way his lips curl, the way his mouth stretches, the way his fingers touch over his hips, the top of his thighs, brush over the sensitive skin of his balls and threaten to slide back further. He can’t hold back his sounds now, mixing with Aramis’ needy whines muffled by the cock in his mouth, tongue pressing along the underside, lips soft as they circle around the cockhead. 

Aramis whines out again, sobbing with relief, as he pushes back against Porthos, who’s fucking into him with earnest now, shifting in little teasing jolts and slides, and then pushing into him harder – not going for speed so much as aiming for deep, shuddering strokes that leave Aramis gasping and whining around d’Artagnan’s cock. 

“Porthos,” Aramis whines as he suckles on d’Artagnan’s cock, not willing to pull back so unable to actually look back at Porthos – instead, he looks up at d’Artagnan as he sucks around him. “Porthos, fuck me harder. Please – don’t be so gentle.” 

He strokes over d’Artagnan’s cock with his fingers and lips at his foreskin tongue flickering out to circle slowly along the cockhead. Porthos grunts behind Aramis, and d’Artagnan watches Aramis, brushing his fingers through his hair as he listens to the steady slap of skin on skin, a deep chuckle from Porthos. When he glances up at him, Porthos is running his hands gently over Aramis’ back, his expression soft and caring as he thrusts into him, watches Aramis nuzzle and kiss at d’Artagnan’s cock. 

“You gonna come?” he asks, and Aramis whines and shakes his head, squirming, desperate for more touch. Porthos laughs, ducks his head and kisses over his spine as he rocks hard into him – and Aramis hums out happily, tasting the salty sweat of d’Artagnan’s skin. He flicks out his tongue in rapid little strokes, suckling around him and nuzzling the cock against his cheek briefly, smiling up at d’Artagnan. 

As they go, Aramis seems to lose some of his finesse as Porthos fucks him. He’s sucking on d’Artagnan with unconcealed eagerness, concentration taken to just press his tongue over him more than trying to swallow around him fully, and d’Artagnan can’t even think to complain or be dissatisfied with it, his entire body shuddering with desire, his touch on his hair tight as Aramis moves over him – and this is more than he’s ever allowed himself to think, and it’s difficult to focus on the touch of his mouth, just envisioning all the things he’d do to Aramis, if he was allowed – coming on him, fucking into him along with Porthos, holding him down and fucking into him himself, with Porthos the one to watch. He groans, weakly. 

“Hold him still,” Porthos tells him from the other end of Aramis, where he’s set up the deep, steady pace of fucking into him deep, deep enough that Aramis’ entire frame rattles with the force of it. “Hold him still and just fuck into him. He likes that, too.” 

Aramis moans his agreement and d’Artagnan manages a small nod, fisting tight into his hair and jerking his head up a little, hips shuddering as he fucks eagerly into his mouth, watches a drip of spit down his chin as he keeps his mouth open for him, and there are obscene wet sounds now as both he and Porthos fuck into both ends of him. 

“Is he – ” d’Artagnan gasps out, “always like this when he drinks?” 

Porthos laughs, slides his hands over Aramis’ flanks, soothing. “Why? You want to keep fucking him, huh?”

His blush betrays him, but Porthos’ grin isn’t teasing or dismissing, just understanding – almost sympathetic. He lifts a hand, too, playing with the curls at the nape of Aramis’ neck. 

“Hear that, Aramis? You’ve got another fan.” 

Aramis moans weakly as d’Artagnan pauses in his clumsy thrusting and draws back enough so Aramis can only suckle on his cock sloppily, looking up at d’Artagnan with a flushed, pleased expression. He suckles clumsily, bobbing forward with each shove of Porthos’ cock. 

“Just don’t let him come – or else he won’t be able to fuck you, too,” Porthos says and both Aramis and d’Artagnan groan at once. He hopes he doesn’t look too eager, too thankful, when he gives Porthos a desperate look – and Porthos just smiles at him, lifting his eyebrows and squeezes Aramis’ hips. “If that’s what you want, of course.”

“Yes,” Aramis moans loudly as he drags his lips over d’Artagnan’s cock. 

“Want to see it,” Porthos murmurs as he squeezes Aramis’ hips. “But you gotta come first before I’m satisfied.” 

Aramis groans weakly, and opens his mouth wider, looking up at d’Artagnan in silent invitation. He nods a little, tugs on Aramis’ hair and fucks into him in time to Porthos’ thrusts. They keep going at it, steadily thrusting in time, fucking Aramis from both ends. 

Aramis looks up at him again, sucks hard on his cock, moans out _his_ name, and d’Artagnan forgets to pay attention to anything else but that for a moment. 

Aramis gasps, arches. His face is screwed up tight and he shudders, and comes. A hot splash of it lands on the inside of d’Artagnan’s thigh and he distantly hears Porthos moaning, can see from the corner of his eye that Porthos is hiding his face against his own shoulder, his breathing ragged as he thrusts into Aramis, who shudders and moans, loud and wild. But d’Artagnan can only really think about the fact that Aramis just came with his own name on his lips. 

Porthos makes a soft sound and catches d’Artagnan’s eye, but d’Artagnan is quickly distracted, as Aramis is mouthing and sucking at his cock again. He whines softly, arches, rocks back against Porthos. 

“Inside,” Aramis gasps out, “Inside, please. Come inside—”

Porthos grunts, and d’Artagnan silently marvels at the way they move, the way that the slightest shift in Porthos’ hips is enough to signal to Aramis that he’s about to come – for d’Artagnan hadn’t realized a difference at all, so distracted by the feel of Aramis’ come on his thigh, so distracted by the face he made as he moaned out his name, cock in his mouth. 

Porthos’ insistent rhythm shudders to a halt, turns into a steady inwards grind that has Aramis jolting into d’Artagnan’s lap, a sharp nip of his teeth against his thigh. He whines and thrashes beneath Porthos, who thrusts into him steadily, and comes inside him with a low moan. 

As he comes, d’Artagnan just stares, envisions the way it must feel, to have that thick cock inside of him, filling him up, spreading him open. His mouth feels dry, and he strokes his fingers through Aramis’ hair as he watches Porthos ride it out, gripping tight to Aramis’ hips, his eyes shut. 

“Isn’t he handsome?” Aramis asks below and d’Artagnan looks down, sees that Aramis has twisted around a bit to watch Porthos, fingers stroking over d’Artagnan’s cock, nuzzling his cheek against it lightly but not taking his eyes off Porthos – who chuckles at the praise. “He’s a beautiful, handsome brute and he knows just how to fuck me best, doesn’t he?”

“I guess,” d’Artagnan says, because he really doesn’t know. 

“You’ll get me, too,” Aramis whispers, presses a sloppy kiss to his cock. “Don’t come just yet – I want you to come inside me, too, so I can feel both of you.” 

This just makes d’Artagnan whine weakly. He watches Porthos ride out his orgasm, his movements quick and brutal, nearly frantic as he shoves into Aramis, and then slumps a bit, draping over his back once he’s done. Aramis arches up to meet him, and d’Artagnan watches the smooth hand on Aramis’ chest, dark and broad, stroking down over him, collecting up the come and bringing it to Aramis’ mouth, who suckles on those fingertips happily. Aramis moans and d’Artagnan stares at the way the fingers touch at his lip, spread his mouth open wide, strokes over his tongue. 

“You want him to fuck you now?” Porthos whispers out, runs his hands over him. 

“Yes,” Aramis gasps out. “Yes, yes… _yes._ ” 

Porthos gives d’Artagnan a look, briefly, then flashes him a wide smile. “You heard the man. Best to obey him before he _really_ starts to whine.” 

He can’t do anything but nod, hands fumbling as he pulls himself onto his knees, sways for half a moment, and then moves away from Aramis – ignoring Aramis’ little whine of protest and Porthos’ answering shush. He kneels down beside Porthos, and now he can get a look at Porthos inside of Aramis – softening now, but d’Artagnan can’t look away as Porthos draws back and out from inside him – and Aramis is spread open wide, waiting for him, already slick and ready and open and d’Artagnan feels that this alone would be enough for him to come if he wasn’t determined to fuck into him, too. To actually feel him. To give friction and heat and truth to his desires. 

Porthos moves out of the way and d’Artagnan drops down to his knees before Aramis, who makes another rather pleased sound, turns onto his back, and spreads his legs. Porthos stands from the bed and moves so that he’s at Aramis’ head now. Aramis’ head settles into Porthos’ lap and d’Artagnan watches in a strange kind of fascination as Porthos begins stroking his fingers through Aramis’ hair, soothing and gentle, like it’s merely second-nature. Aramis looks at d’Artagnan and then shifts his gaze to just look up at Porthos, his expression soft. 

“We doing alright, so far?”

“Mmm,” Aramis hums and arches, “always.” 

There’s no chance of Aramis forming more words after that, as d’Artagnan reaches out and holds his hips tight in his hands like Porthos before him – and d’Artagnan can remember how large Porthos’ hands looked, how much they seemed to belong there, and how strange his look in comparison. 

He lines himself up against Aramis, who whines at the teasing brush of a cockhead against him, and spread his legs wider, arching his hips up a little. 

“Please, d’Artagnan,” Aramis whines, “Fuck me?” 

And he groans in pleasure when d’Artagnan, hands shaking, slowly pushes into him. It feels strange, different from what he expected, but a heated gasp punches out of him and he shudders his hips forward, rocking slowly into him and he’s a mess of oil and Porthos’ come, and it’s hardly a stretch at all and d’Artagnan watches the way Aramis thrashes and whines, rocking down to meet his cock – and he feels warm and relaxed, muscles lax with exhaustion and pleasure, and d’Artagnan envisions how widely he was stretched around Porthos’ cock, and how he just slides in now with only a bit of a stretch. Aramis happily accepts the pace that d’Artagnan sets, thrusting into him. Aramis rolls his hips down to meet him, whining and moaning and shifting his head to nuzzle into Porthos’ hands.

“You think you can come again?” Porthos asks him quietly as d’Artagnan starts speeding up, thrusting into him with abandon, swept away by the feel of Aramis – by how open and raw he is, how slicked and warm he feels, all those stupid, perfect sounds he’s making as d’Artagnan fucks into him. Aramis moans weakly and Porthos laughs softly, “You should see yourself, Aramis. I could watch you all day. Look at how much you want it.”

“Yes,” Aramis sobs out, thrusts down harder against d’Artagnan, who gasps and shoves his cock in deeper. 

“Look at how much you can take,” Porthos whispers, playing with his hair. “Don’t let the lad work too hard though – let him come already. Look at how hard he’s working to make you feel good.” 

Aramis whines out, as does d’Artagnan a moment later because Aramis is clenching tight around him and moving his hips rapidly down to meet him, following Porthos’ instructions and seemingly determined to get d’Artagnan to come. And he really doesn’t need much more than this, not when Aramis is tight and slick beneath him, not when he can feel Porthos’ come pressing against his cock as he thrusts into Aramis, not when Aramis is making those needy sounds and arching into Porthos’ hand. 

He comes with a shudder, thrusting hard into him, filling Aramis up alongside Porthos. He rides it out, but it’s shorter than with Porthos, more frantic, his hips shuddering. He slumps a bit once he’s done, draws back, watches in quiet fascination as some of the come presses out of Aramis. 

Before he and Aramis can truly react, though, Porthos’ hand is back, pressing three fingers into him and thrusting. Aramis, spent and oversexed, blissed out, whines softly and squirms. Porthos smiles down at him fondly, whispers out sweet endearments, and thrusts his hand into him. 

He looks at d’Artagnan after a moment. “There’s a basin with water and a few towels over there – go get them?” 

His entire body feels like rubber, shaky and uneasy, but he nods and stands up, stumbling his way towards where Porthos indicated. When he returns, Aramis’ eyes are closed and he appears to be asleep, even as Porthos spreads him open with his fingertips. He hands the towel over and Porthos slowly withdraws his hand, taking the towel and washing Aramis off as best he can, brushing the cloth over his stomach, the inside of his thighs, his cock and his backside. His touch his soft and warm, his expression soft with his love for his brother and friend. Yet again, despite all that’d transpired, d’Artagnan feels as if he is intruding. 

Porthos hands him the towel next and his hands shake as he cleans himself off. Porthos cleans himself off last and shifts Aramis around so that he can stretch out, sprawled, on his bed. When Porthos tries to move away, Aramis whines a bit and curls his fingers into Porthos’ breeches, nuzzling against his hip. Porthos smiles faintly and doesn’t move after that, fingers sliding through his hair.

“Is he going to be alright?” d’Artagnan asks quietly. “This – wanting to forget. What does he want to forget?”

Porthos is quiet, just looking down at Aramis, who lapses off into a sex-addled half-sleep, murmuring quietly but not truly responding to anything he says or Porthos does. 

Then Porthos looks at him, smiling almost sadly. “He’ll tell us when he’s ready.” 

It isn’t much of an answer, but then, it’s clear that Porthos doesn’t know what it is that’s bothering Aramis, either. So he just sighs. He shifts from foot to foot.

“Should I…?” he’s about to ask if he should leave, get some air, anything – but instead Porthos reaches out and grasps his elbow, and pulls him down so he’s pressed up to his other side.

“Stay. He’ll want to pamper you in the morning. He’s good at that,” Porthos says, and d’Artagnan frowns thoughtfully, but then rests his cheek against Porthos’ shoulder, feeling the entire, strong length of him. 

“Yeah,” he says quietly, “I can imagine.”

Porthos snorts out a laugh and pats the back of d’Artagnan’s head, brushing at his hair. “You alright, then?”

“… Yeah, definitely,” d’Artagnan says, perhaps a bit too eagerly because Porthos chuckles deep and low, enough that Aramis shifts in his sleep and mumbles out his name.

**Author's Note:**

> Since someone asked a few fics back - I am on tumblr! You can find me [here](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/)!
> 
>  **ETA:** This fic now has [fanart](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/post/101087657644/do-you-think-im-pretty-too-idk-just-wanted), drawn by the wonderful JL! :D


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